Temperance Movement
by Jessica Simpson-Bourget
Summary: A missing scene/bridge between Rebound, Part 2 and I Call Your Name. Sam shares his ongoing recovery with Diane. Diane has some recovering of her own to do.


The loud knock at the door startled Diane from her meditation, leaving her out of sorts and irritated. "Who in the world could it be at this hour?" she wondered, "Frasier said he'd let me know if he was coming by."

She remained perfectly still for a long moment, hoping the visitor would just go away on their own, but then came more knocking, this time more insistent. Then silence. She ran through a mental list of people it might plausibly be, and couldn't think of anyone who'd come around so late without calling first. Not many people even knew she was back in Boston after her sanivacation.

She padded over to the door and the banging started again. Now she was nervous. She bound her robe around herself tightly and wondered if she should find a makeshift weapon. She opted to find out who it was instead.

Before she could ask, she heard a body slump against the door, punctuated by a low moan as a head hit the wood.

"Owwwwwww… damn it."

She immediately recognized the anguished voice and unlatched the locks.

"Sam?"

He nearly fell backward through the frame as she opened the door, and turned to look up at her in surprise.

"Oh, so you _are_ here. I'd just given up."

He lumbered to his feet and she caught the faintest scent of whiskey on his breath. He'd been drinking. He wasn't drunk, but he shouldn't have had anything at this stage of his recovery. Her chin dimpled in concern as she studied him closely.

Steadying himself in her doorway, he looked every bit the charming rake he always was, with a ready smile that was almost a leer. What was missing was the twinkle in his blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She feigned annoyance, but was troubled and at the same time, more than a little thrilled by his presence.

"Hey, what kind of a greeting is that? Doesn't an old friend rate a warmer welcome?"

Not wanting a scene in the outer hallway, Diane quickly ushered him into her living room with a toss of her hair.

"Get inside," she chided, closing the door behind him. "Now will you please tell me what exactly you're up to?"

Sam sauntered over to the couch and made himself at home, and she bristled at the renewed familiarity. It had been a while since he'd crossed her threshold. This felt… dangerous.

He sensed her discomfort, and wasn't sure whether or not he liked it. Normally he enjoyed keeping her on edge, but tonight he'd hoped for some peace. God, she looked beautiful, even in that old robe. Especially in that old robe.

"I was in the neighborhood…"

"The hell you were," she retorted tersely. She knew Sam had no business on this street except her.

"Ah, come on, it's possible. Or is this end of Beacon Hill your exclusive domain, Princess?"

Princess was the first word that came to his mind whenever she took that haughty tone with him. It suited her, and truth be told, he kind of liked it.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow, but couldn't help smiling at the title. Or was it him?

"Okay, ya got me," he conceded with a rueful grin, "I'm here because you're here. Still can't fool you."

She sat down on the couch beside him so he didn't have to crane his neck to look at her.

He was terribly captivating despite his current state, though she couldn't help feeling a certain sadness beneath her attraction. It was hard seeing him like this. Before she left, he wore his sobriety like an invisible mantle. He was a battle-tested veteran, proud of his victory over his demons. Now it seemed that his pride had vanished with the unseen laurel. He still had his swagger, but it came from a darker place, and his devil-may-care attitude was as disconcerting as it was engaging. She briefly thought about calling Frasier, but Sam seemed in control and a small, shadowy corner of her own heart wanted to see what would happen next.

"I uh… I poured myself a drink tonight and I felt like I had to tell someone. Like I needed to be accountable for it somehow, so… here I am." He looked ashamed, but nevertheless continued. "I actually ran all the way here. Don't worry, I'll tell Frasier too. The thing is, I poured two fingers of scotch and took one sip. I sat and looked at it for a long time... held the glass in my hand... watched it move around and catch the light... breathed in the malt... all the little triggers and rituals that I could never resist. No one would've known if I'd thrown it all back. I was alone and it was 'safe'. I could've gotten away with it. Well... to cut to the chase, the rest of the glass and the bottle it came from went down the drain. I don't know why I poured it in the first place. I guess I was kinda testing myself, but I just… didn't want it. I didn't want to do _that_ to myself, whether anyone knew about it or not. And I think it's because of you. I mean, the help you got me. I think I'm really done now. I'm finally starting to believe it for myself, and I wanted to thank you for that."

Diane felt a wave of relief wash over her. This wasn't the disaster she thought she was dealing with, but a triumph. She was overcome with emotion. She wanted to throw her arms around him, but thought better of it. No use swapping one problem for another.

"Well, you know, I just gave you a little nudge. You're the one doing all the hard work here," she demurred, giving him a long look. "I'm proud of you, you know that?"

She patted his forearm lightly to underline the sentiment, and he moved his hand to cover hers. Old habits.

"Yeah. I'm proud of me too. Thanks."

Diane suddenly felt shy and her gaze dropped into her lap.

"You're welcome, Sam."

There was a long, ponderous silence before he decided to change the subject.

"Anyway... I do have a bone to pick with you, Miss Chambers."

"Really? I'm shocked," she deadpanned.

"Yes, really. It wasn't very nice of you to show up at the bar like that without warning me… you could've called, you know, at least to tell me how you were. All those months…" Despite his efforts to keep his tone light, his pain was unmistakable.

Diane knew what he was referring to. Her tenure at Goldenbrook was still a sore spot for her.

"I really couldn't at the time."

"What, did they lock you up or something?"

Diane tensed at the implication.

"No, they did not lock me up. I just… didn't want to… _upset_ things any further. The way we left it…"

"Yeah, I know…" He took a deep breath, gathering the strength to say what needed to be said. "I was a real jerk to you, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. Hell, I didn't deserve you. But I worried about you, Diane. Still do."

Sam was sorry. She felt as though a crushing weight had been lifted off of her chest, and the cruel, gaping heart wound she'd been nursing for the past several months stopped weeping. Knowing he regretted his words and actions made a difference, despite the fact that their circumstances had changed. It wasn't all for nothing. He cared. He cares.

"Sam… I don't know what to say. I never expected to hear that from you."

"I don't know why not. I screwed up. I owed you that much, if not more."

"We _both_ screwed up," she interrupted. "Okay, maybe you more than me, but still…"

Her eyes crinkled in merriment. She couldn't resist teasing him. That much would never change.

"Okay, okay, I deserve that," Sam replied with a laugh. "But seriously, I never thought I'd see you walk in that bar again. I mean, ever. I couldn't bring myself to say it at the time, but you were a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart. You always were a knockout in red. I'll never forget it."

Diane suddenly felt nervous without knowing exactly why. Boundaries…

"Well, you know... Coach… I never could resist him," she half-grinned.

"Irresistible…" Sam mused, his mind clearly not on Coach.

Diane shifted in her seat a little, inching away from him. Sam reached over and nudged her shoulder.

"What is it, Diane? You uncomfortable?"

She refused to let him know how he affected her. She wasn't going down that road again with him.

"No, I just… needed to…" she couldn't complete that sentence to save her life. The words weren't coming.

"You need something, Diane?" Sam countered, leveling her with a playful grin.

Her face flushed. God, he was infuriating. And yet…

"I need nothing. I want for _nothing_…" Diane chuffed, her dual meaning unmistakable.

"I'll just leave that one alone," Sam replied, clearly amused with himself.

She felt that old Sam Malone ire heating her veins.

"I have everything I ever wanted."

"_Everything_?"

He edged closer to her on the couch. His face registered a panoply of emotions and intents, from hurt to genuine curiosity to cruel derision to outright seduction.

Diane struggled to parse his meaning, but it was next to impossible. What exactly did he want from her? Why was he torturing her like this? And why did she find herself longing for him in spite of everything?

"Sam…"

"Diane..?" he asked, leaning in a bit, his eyes suddenly reclaiming their twinkle.

She was thoroughly unnerved. Alone on her couch with Sam. So close.

"I… we… can't…" she protested feebly.

She was prey to his predator and his instincts urged him forward. His fingers played at the lapel of her robe.

"We can't what?"

Closer… closer...

"What…?" she whispered weakly.

The room was suddenly quite warm and the air between them thickened, slowing time itself. Every sound, every movement, was languorous and cloaked in a dim, fuzzy veil. Words stopped meaning. There was only the tingle and rush of hot blood thrumming in their veins, temperatures rising in tandem with proximity.

"I think you know what…" he replied, his breath warm on her neck.

His mouth was very close to her skin when the phone rang. Once, twice, three times… neither could be sure how long it rang before the spell was broken.

His eyes never leaving her face, he lifted her wrist and pressed a searing kiss into her upturned palm.

Breathless, she stared at her hand for a moment longer, then shook her head as if to dissipate the electrically charged molecules that comprised her personal haze. She staggered to her feet, lurching toward the phone on wobbly knees. Sam grinned a Cheshire grin.

"Hello? … Oh, Frasier…" she murmured without expression before snapping to. "Frasier! Yes! … No, I'm fine… just meditating, sorry." She looked guiltily in Sam's direction then turned her back on him. "Okay. … I'll see you in a bit. ... I will. ... I love you too. Goodbye."

Diane turned back to see Sam rising to his feet. Pale and slack-jawed, he looked like he'd been sucker-punched. The twinkle in his eyes was extinguished.

"Sam, are you alright?"

He couldn't look at her. His eyes darted around the room in avoidance. He couldn't bear to see her face after she spoke those words to Frasier. And it wasn't for show or to make a point in front of the gang at the bar. She loved Frasier. The very idea was a knife in his gut, but to have first hand confirmation was a small death.

"Yeah, yeah… I'm fine. I'm great. Just need a little fresh air is all. Listen, I should hit the road. Besides, it sounds like you've got a date yourself. Hey, you have a terrific evening with Frasier, you hear? He's a hell of a guy. Really."

"Sam..?"

"A hell of a guy. I'll uh… see you tomorrow, okay? Or whenever? Say hi to Frasier for me. Hell of a guy."

He reached for the doorknob and made a quick exit before his voice betrayed him.

Diane watched him go, her heart in her throat and the lead weight firmly returned to its place on her chest.

The door closed behind him, his true feelings escaped: "Bastard."

Unbeknownst to him, Diane heard, and a new wound opened. Through unshed tears, she whispered a quick prayer both for Sam and for herself and sat down to wait for Frasier.

* * *

She'd seemed far away from the moment he walked in the door. Her usually sparkling conversation was strained and distracted. He couldn't put his finger on it, but knew something was very wrong indeed. She did her best to keep up appearances, but that Ph.D in psychiatry wasn't for nothing. His worst fears were confirmed later that night:

"Oh, Diane… Diane… God…"

"_Sam_…"


End file.
